


My Blue Heaven

by DefinitelyNotPie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2017 SAMFA 2nd Place - Best Mystery, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 06:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyNotPie/pseuds/DefinitelyNotPie
Summary: Sherlock has a song stuck in his head, but why?This begins during T6T & assumes a shift in the dynamic of Sherlock & Molly's friendship following the events of S3 & TAB.The narrative timeline splits from canon almost immediately so almost all of S4 will not happen here. But it's not that important to the story, so just enjoy the ride.





	1. Bye Bye Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration struck while I was brushing my teeth. I don't know how long this story will be, but it's all mapped out (mostly) & I hope you all love it as much as I do!
> 
> It's pure cotton candy. Just fluff & sweetness.
> 
> Each chapter title is a clue, but if you don't want spoilers - don't do your research!

Sitting in John and Mary’s living room, along with Mrs. Hudson and Molly, as well as the newest Watson, Sherlock kept obsessively trained on his smartphone, fully absorbed in scouring the internet and contacting his Homeless Network for any and all clues that could help him with the Return of James Moriarty.

This was an important occasion, the a prelude to the christening of John & Mary's latest achievement, and he was dutifully present and accepted his position as godfather, but he remained unwilling to offer his full attention to the room. John was annoyed, but not angry with his best friend. After having been almost exiled indefinitely for the murder of Charles Magnussen, he was just grateful to have Sherlock here. And he knew how Sherlock was when there was Work to be done.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were fawning over Mary and her new daughter, whom she held proudly against her bosom. The women snapping pictures and cooing at the babe, who peered in wonder through her swaddle.

Sherlock’s eyes would occasionally dart from the endless stream of correspondence he held in his hands, to the spectacle of Mary passing her baby to the eager but hesitant arms of Molly Hooper. His lips quirked in a quick grin, a whisper of amusement and fondness at how Molly’s face lit up as she crooned sweetly at the blinking infant.

A little hand emerged from the bundle, clutching Molly’s finger as the woman made exaggerated looks of surprise while remarking on the baby’s incredible strength and cleverness. His attention was pulled back into the sea of information, drawing seemingly innocuous details from various news reports, blogs, and texts from the Irregulars, and queuing said data for storage later. 

When his eyes returned to the room, Mrs. Hudson and Mary were laughing gently and casting glances over to Molly, watched over fondly by John, while she held onto both of Baby Watson’s hands. The babe had since been moved to resting in Molly’s lap, her head cradled on her stockinged knees. She was gently tapping the baby’s hands together, and reciting, what Sherlock (after blinking himself into further presence) determined to be Pat-A-Cake.

“...and mark it with a ‘B’  
And put it in the oven  
For Molly and me!”

She laughed then, embarrassed and amused with herself for changing the traditional words. No one in the room seemed to mind and chuckled in kind. Molly’s eyes met his then, and she colored shyly at finding him watching her. She looked away with an eye roll as she freed her fingers from the infant’s grasp and carefully scooped her from her lap and returned her to Mary’s arms.

Sherlock continued to almost stare, transfixed, his brows knit suddenly in a questioning, but curious furrow. Somewhere deep in his Mind Palace, a room not explored for decades softly popped open, and like wisps of smoke, a melody began swirling out into the vast and endless halls.

Still watching Molly as she rubbed her hands against her knees, chilled now from the removal of the baby’s warmth, the friendly chatter around him turned into an almost monotonous din. Sherlock turned his attention back to the smartphone in hand… and began tapping his foot. 


	2. The Lonesome Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John notices something different about Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as happy with this chapter... but I think the next will be much better.

It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to have music wafting about his thoughts, he was, after all, a talented musician as well as the world’s only Consulting Detective. It was, however, curious that the melody that had been drifting in and out of his awareness for the past week or so was one he couldn’t immediately recognize and still hadn’t been able to identify. And then...

John had noticed the finger tapping. They’d been en route to a crime scene and he curiously watched Sherlock’s fingers popping rhythmically along in an otherwise silent cab. Sherlock had been in his Mind Palace and was unresponsive to any outside stimuli, and while it wasn't something John had ever known Sherlock to do, he wouldn't have even mentioned it, but then...

The ride back found Sherlock bobbing his head, a look of intense concentration twisting his face. John's intrigue increasing with every new, almost unconscious little gesture his friend had been making. Then...

At Baker Street, while the two men were working late into the evening pouring over phone records of one Maximillian Heartley, a prominent banker who’d met a rather gruesome end, hanging from a meat hook in an industrial freezer. While deeply engrossed in a series of text messages, John’s attention was pulled away by the extremely alien sound of Sherlock humming. And he could stand it no longer.

“Are you composing again or something?” he blurted finally.

Sherlock looked up at him, confused.

“What? I’m trying to determine if Heartley’s mistress has mafia connections. What does it look like I'm doing?” Sherlock responded irritably.

John straightened, “You were humming.”

Sherlock scoffed, John continued, “and you’ve been bopping along to some tune for days. I thought maybe you were working on something. Haven't heard you play of late, not since the wedding, really. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was just curious.”

John tried for casual, but as odd as Sherlock was, whenever he did something so painfully normal it was difficult not to be fascinated. He turned his attention back to the paperwork at hand, and watched Sherlock deflate in his periphery.

Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been humming or tapping or bobbing or anything. He’d been aware of the melody that had been haunting him, unable to pinpoint exactly why it was in his head or even where he had heard it. It was painfully familiar, but hung about his thoughts like a mist and for all his genius he could not grab hold of it. It was getting rather annoying.

“I’ve had a song… stuck? in my head. Bits and pieces and it comes and goes... I can’t for the life of me work out what it is."

Sherlock seemed… embarrassed. This was delightfully normal.

John huffed a laugh, “Whenever I get an earworm I just go after the most obnoxious, catchy song I can think of and listen to it. Usually helps sort it out.”

He shrugged and put his papers on a pile of Nothing then grabbed a new sheet of texts. "Anything you can tell me about it? Maybe I can help."

Sherlock would never tell John, but he had, in fact, tried listening to obnoxious music to oust the, what did John call it? _Earworm._ He and Molly had spent an entire evening going through her extensive catalog of pop music, but after hours of listening to teenagers wailing about their amorous endeavors and lonely hearts bleeding on about lost loves, he still couldn’t shake the Song.

Though it had been a pleasant evening, conducting experiments in the basement at Bart’s while Molly sang along and danced about to the music. He marveled at how she seemed to know all the words to every single song and could sing along while simultaneously dissecting and cataloging all of the parts of a human brain. He told her as much later on over a bag of chips as he dropped her home. She had just laughed and shrugged.

The Song was becoming harder to ignore. In the small hours Sherlock would play what he could pull from memory on his violin, but it was always incomplete. Not enough to make sense of.  It had become something of an off-hour obsession. When there was no Work or company, he’d withdraw to his Mind Palace, where it was the loudest, and search for the source of the music. He _knew_ it was in there somewhere, but he’d torn through all the rooms containing any information of the last 3 months of his comings and goings, no matter how tedious, but to no avail. It simply wasn’t there. He’d considered going deeper, venturing close to areas that held past memories he really didn’t want to revisit. 

He'd detoured to his "Music Library", but was unable to find anything. It was not any symphony he’d ever heard. It wasn’t from an opera, or even from one of those wretched musicals his parents loved to drag him and Mycroft to. His popular music section was limited, but it held nothing like the Song. From what he had gathered, he knew there was a piano accompaniment, as well as, he believed, a cello. There was also a hint of a warbling male voice singing, but he couldn’t hear it clearly enough to parse any of the lyrics.

He had to be missing something, he was  _always_ missing _something_.

Sherlock shrugged, "I doubt it. There's absolutely nothing I can tell you. It's like... a suspect running around in my head, and I'm chasing him, but he slips away just as I get close enough to almost catch her..."

He looked frustrated. John new full well how much Sherlock enjoyed a challenge, but he did _not_ like not knowing things and he couldn't imagine Sherlock being at odds with his own head. John almost felt sorry for him, being driven to distraction by something as silly as this, but then...

"Wait, 'Her'?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled, gritting through his teeth, "If you've fulfilled your daily quota for mundane chatter, can we get back to work?"

 


	3. Sleepy Time Gal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & Molly watch Rosie for the night.

* * *

It was a few days later that Sherlock found himself looking after Rosie at Baker Street. John had been called into the surgery and Mary was away at a conference. He felt confident enough in his ability to look after his goddaughter, especially with Mrs. Hudson right downstairs, but John had felt the need to inform Molly of the situation should Sherlock get overwhelmed.

When Molly appeared at the flat that evening, Sherlock did his best to appear offended by John’s lack of faith, but was actually quite relieved to see her. Rosie had become rather irritable in the early evening, and he hadn't been able to calm her down.

When Molly walked in with a bag full of take-away, Sherlock promptly traded her the fussy child for the food, “Here. I think she’s turning into a werewolf or something,” and then went straight to the kitchen to plate their dinners, not missing Molly's burst of laughter behind his back.

Molly had, to Sherlock’s amazement and feigned offense, been able to settle the baby. They spent some time dancing around the flat while Molly sang various nursery songs.

Sherlock allowed himself to consider how fascinating he found Molly when she was with Rosie (and without Rosie, if he dared to be honest with himself). He envied her versatility, and knew that much of his own growth with Watson the Younger he could handily attribute to the example set by his pathologist.

The woman he’d known for close to ten years, little but fierce, and deadly with a bonesaw, was as just as clever in her dealings with children as she was with her own work. Though he had never seen her with another child, and he ignored the weight in his chest at the thought of Molly having to work on one in her morgue. 

It came time for Sherlock to make the rounds, as Molly needed the loo and Rosie needed a change of scenery. He walked into his bedroom to show Rosie his periodic table, often he found that his recitation of the elements always seemed to be able to lull the baby to sleep. He had believed it was from boredom on her part, but Molly insisted it was his voice. (She had blushed after she said it. He filed it away.) Tonight, though, Rosie was having none of his chemistry lesson. So, Sherlock began the sway/bounce, as he called it, shuffling around his room, and he began to sing the first thing that came to mind.

The Song.

Singing might be a stretch, as he hadn't yet really recalled specific lyrics, but he had managed to piece together what he was certain was several solid measures of the melody. Perhaps a refrain. So he hummed and scat along to the tune, and Rosie seemed content. 

After several renditions in different keys, she had drifted off and he placed her gently onto the bed, surrounded by a barricade of blankets and pillows. He turned to see Molly silhouetted in the doorway, the light of the sitting room bathing her frame in soft yellow, giving her an ethereal halo from within the darkened room.

“That was beautiful, Sherlock. What’s that song?” She whispered as he edged past her into the hall, pulling the door almost shut behind him.

He groaned as he walked across the room.

“I have no idea,” he flailed his hands weakly and flopped onto the sofa, “Just something that’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”

Molly sat next to him, a contemplative look on her face. Sherlock took a quick assessment of her proximity to him, her knee pressed lightly into his hip as she sat crossed legged, her elbow brushing his shoulder as she leaned it against the back of the sofa and rested her head against her hand. He filed it away.

“It’s so familiar.” She said, as if to herself. “It almost sounds like something my granddad would have listened to.”

She pulled a book from her bag and settled in to began reading. He watched her for a while, listing musical genres in his head of what someone in their 90s might have enjoyed, as well as cataloging the various expressions Molly made while her eyes darted across the pages. 

With Molly curled up at the end of the sofa with her book, Sherlock opted to take the other end. He lay down opposite her, bringing his legs up, feet subtly requesting access to the crook of her knees. She grumbled mildly, but adjusted accordingly, then pulled the afghan over her lap. Satisfied that they were both sufficiently comfortable, he closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace for daily maintenance.

* * *

 

"Sherlock..." a hand on his shoulder, "Sherlock..."

He opened his eyes to find John looking down at him, a smugly bemused grin on his face.

"What?" Sherlock growled. He moved to rub his eyes, but found one of his hands pinned. Looking down, he saw Molly draped across his side, head on his stomach, fast asleep.

"Rosie run you both ragged then, yeah?" John asked, still grinning like a fool.

Sherlock was able to slide out from under his pathologist without rousing her. He ran a hand across his eyes, blinking away the sleep.

"A bit. You could have warned me of her tendency to howl at the moon." Sherlock mumbled, "But no, she was fine. Ate, pooped, slept... rinse and repeat."

He stepped around John to gather Rosie's belongings. John just pivoted where he stood.

"I see, well... what's uh, going on here then?" he asked, with a nod towards the sofa.

Sherlock didn't look at him.

"Molly must have fallen asleep while I was thinking and fell over. Then apparently, I fell asleep. And then you woke me up." He turned and roughly handed the nappy bag over to John. "Rosie's in the bedroom." he said flatly. John took the dismissal for what it was, but refused to hide his amusement.

After gathering up his daughter as gently as possible, John headed back towards the sitting room to fetch the bag. Molly was still sleeping soundly while Sherlock sat in his chair looking uncomfortable.

"Quite the little nest you set up back there." John said as he fastened Rosie into her infant carrier. 

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked harshly.

John looked up, taken aback. Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped. 

"I just said that it was quite a little nest you set up for Rosie. It looked cozy. Thank you for making her comfortable." John clarified pointedly. Sherlock turned his eyes away, darting from Rosie to Molly, then to his lap.

"Yes, well. She's our goddaughter. Happy to do it."

John narrowed his eyes as he assessed his friend, then, saying nothing, scooped up the carrier and nappy bag, nodded a goodnight and Love to Molly, then left Sherlock looking awkwardly into the cold fireplace. His mind reeling with a glimpse of something he couldn't identify.

... _a little nest_...  
... _a little nest_...


	4. Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary, Mary, quite contrary...

Mary loved Sherlock. He was the brother she never knew she wanted. That said, he was also an insufferable prat, and it had long been established that she was one of the few people who could manage him when he was behaving as such.

Mary received a call from Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock hadn't left the flat in days, was incessantly playing the same song on his violin, violently and repeatedly, had refused food and was surviving merely on cold tea and biscuits. She had since stopped trying to get through to him, as he had taken to pouncing viciously on all interlopers.

"Mrs. Hudson, when did this start?" Mary had asked. Martha tutted on the other end of the line,

"Oh dear... it was earlier in the week. Molly had been over to help Sherlock with something and I think they had a bit of a row, I'm not sure what about. I could tell she was holding her own against him for a while, but eventually he ran her off and he's been like that ever since."

"Is that so?" Mary's eyes sparkled. John had told her about having walked in on Sherlock and Molly asleep on the sofa, and Sherlock's forced indifference and relative disquiet afterwards. Mary reminded him that Molly was surely Sherlock's Kryptonite. John just shook his head and warned her to stay out of it. 

Now though, it seemed Mary would need to intervene. Not so much that she was crossing any boundaries, but she wasn't going to stand by and let Sherlock further injure his friendship with Molly because he's being emotionally constipated.

Needs must.

When she arrived at 221b the first thing she noted was the absolute silence. When she gently opened the door to the flat, she marveled at the chaos before her. The entire flat looked to have been ransacked, chairs turned over, papers strewn about and right in the midst of that chaotic quiet was a disheveled and unshaven Sherlock, slumped in his chair one hand poised over the arm, violin hanging precariously from his hand, and lightly smacking himself in the head with his bow with the other. His eyes were wide and glassy, and he didn't seem to noticed Mary approach.  
She put a tentative hand around the neck of the violin before she bellowed,

"HELLO, SUNSHINE!!!" and snatched the instrument as Sherlock scrambled backward over the chair in a flurry of dressing gown, and fell to the floor into a tangle of limbs. Mary laughed despite herself. He looked up at her, bewildered and confused, which just made her laugh harder. The slightest look of betrayal skittered across his face before his visage took on a full scowl.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?!" he sputtered, rising to his feet in a huff. He glared at her. She laughed,

"Me? What are YOU doing? My god, when was the last time you bathed?" Mary waved a hand in front of her face. Sherlock frowned and looked into the mirror above the fireplace, his anger doused.

"Um..." he said dumbly. Mary continued,

"What the hell happened here, Sherlock? It's like a bomb went off."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he muttered, "I've been working on a... problem."

"That why you've been harrying poor Martha? And I heard you ran Molly off." She folded her arms and looked crossly at him. His face fell to one of concern and almost panic,

"What do you mean? Where did she go?!" he stammered. Mary blinked,

"Not literally, you pig, I meant she left the flat because you were being an arse." She didn't miss the relief in his eyes. He frowned and sat back down in his chair. He said nothing. Mary sighed and sat down opposite him, setting the violin down on the side table.

"What's this problem, then?" she redirected. His eyes flitted between looking her in the eye and looking at anything else but.

"Just a... something I can't figure out. A problem, it's been bothering me for a few weeks now."

She looked at him expectantly. He sighed,

"God. Fine. I've got a song stuck in my head and I can't figure out why or what it is or remember any of the words or what it's about and it's driving me insane. I've tried everything I could think of and everything I researched on the internet about how to dislodge it and nothing has helped. It's driven me to absolute distraction, I can't get any work done, I can't concentrate on anything. It's absolutely ridiculous, I have never in my life dealt with something as ridiculous as this and I've worked with _Anderson_!" he was almost out of breath at the end of his tirade. Mary thought carefully before she responded.

"Is that the song you've been playing over and over? Mrs. Hudson says you've been non-stop, I'm surprised you've still got your fingertips." She was smirking at him and he huffed lightly, then nodded. She chewed her bottom lip in thought,

"What have you gathered thus far?" she questioned, her head tilting inquiringly. She knew he'd have a cache of collected data in that big brain of his and that he could give her a reasonable amount of information regarding the subject. He sighed, shaking his head,  
"Piano. Cello. Male vocalist. Early 20th century, possibly American. ...birds."

"Birds?"

"Yes. I believe the song is about birds. I can't recall many lyrics, but there is something about a nest and birds... and..." he made a pained face, as though he were desperately reaching for something just out of his grasp.

"That's it? That's all you've got after weeks?" Mary was unimpressed. Sherlock looked wounded,

"I have _tried_... I can hear it. I hear all the time. All day and all night. Drifting in and out of my head like an echo... it's invisible, I can not track it. No matter how hard I concentrate, it _teases_ me." He grit his teeth. Mary sighed,

"Play it for me?"

"It won't make any sense, it's incomplete." he pouted. "But I'm close, I think. I've almost got everything, I just need to put the pieces in order..."

She frowned, but let it go, "Fine. But get it sorted, and stop being such a prick. And clean up this mess, Martha is not your housekeeper!" She began moving about the flat, picking up random detritus and placing it out of the way. She straightened, and pointed a finger at Sherlock, who hadn't moved to help her. "And for god's sake, whatever you did to piss off Molly, fix it. I know even you aren't so socially stunted to not realize that that woman is not going to forgive you every trespass!" The look in her eyes turned colder, sharper, and Sherlock froze under it. "You do not want to lose her, Sherlock."

He tried, bless him, he tried to appear unaffected. He blinked one time too many, and Mary was rolling her eyes before he'd even prepared his defense. He opened his mouth to retort, but Mary stopped him with a shake of her head. They faced off for several moments, engaged in a wordless debate that they both knew Mary would ultimately win. He shut his mouth with a snap and Mary relaxed her offensive stance.

"Brilliant, " she chirped. "Get back to work."

And then she was gone.  


	5. In My Bouquet of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is the smart one.

Sherlock had been in the final throes of assembling the final musical components of the Song. He’d occasionally clamp down on a lyric or two, add it to his pile of data, and continue with his work. He’d found some semblance of relief in hearing the full composition, as he could remember it, though the thought that there was still an essential element he was missing never abated.

After Mary had sorted him out, things had become a little easier. He was working again, working with Molly again, and was able to better contain his ravenous earworm. Still, it demanded to be fed, so in the still hours he’d lavish it with attention, hoping to coax its secrets.

This was what Mycroft walked into when he stepped over the threshold into 221 Baker Street and stopped dead at the foot of the stairs. A wave of melancholy and nostalgia overwhelmed him and all at once he forgot entirely why he was here. Drifting down from 221b was a song he'd not heard in over 30 years.

It wasn't a perfect rendition, but it was enough for him to recognize it for what it was. For one brief, exhilarating moment, he was 10 years old and all was right with the world.

He slowly ascended the stairs, recomposing himself before entering the open flat.

There, by the window stood his brother, violin in hand and raking out a melody that had lie dormant in Mycroft memories for decades. He listened and watched silently while Sherlock finished, who then seemed to slumped in defeat. He didn't look up or turn around.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he sounded tired and sad.  
  
Despite what Sherlock often claimed, Mycroft did not delight in his brother's unhappiness. On the contrary, Mycroft cared deeply for his baby brother and wanted nothing more than for him to be safe and content. He stepped further into the room.

"I've never heard you play that song. I am amazed you even remember it." he said softly, sitting down on sofa. At his words Sherlock's head shot up and he spun on his heels,

"What?! Remember what?!" he said sharply. Mycroft managed to appear genuinely confused.

"My Blue Heaven. Gene Austin, 1927. Though it's been covered countless times by dozens of artists over the past century, but that particular version was Grandmere's favorite." he smiled simply. Sherlock looked speculative, uncertain.

"Grandmere...?” he echoed. Mycroft nodded.

"Yes, Sherlock. Mummy's grandmother. She came to live with us at Musgrave when you were just a baby. She died when you were around 4, but you and she were thick as thieves before then. Do you remember her?"

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes darting back and forth as he combed his memories. He sat down on his chair, facing Mycroft and, for once, listening eagerly for his brother to continue.

"Yes, well, you were so very small. But Grandmere would sit with you for hours and hours in the parlor. She loved American Standards, and had so many, many records. She had an old gramophone and you used to love to-"

"To wind it up." Sherlock finished, recollection dawning.. Mycroft smiled again, nodding.

"Her favorite song was My Blue Heaven. She'd play it constantly, and you were the only one who could stand to hear it so many times over. The two of you did this every single day for at least a year. Eventually, her health failed her and she passed away. You avoided the parlor for years after that. The gramophone went into storage and was lost in the fire." Mycroft's gentle smile lapsed, and he cast his eyes to the floor. A lifetime of memories catching up with him. He sighed,

"What made you play it?" He was genuinely curious. Sherlock frowned,

"I have had it stuck in my head for weeks, with no idea why or how it even got in there.” Sherlock said, “This doesn’t makes any sense. Why would I think of it now?" He looked so frustrated. Mycroft considered this for a moment,

"Well, while it's a dreadfully sentimental song, I know enough about symbolism and metaphor to understand that the singer is speaking of... _home_." Sherlock, if it were possible, looked even more confused and uncertain. It was obvious, then, that Sherlock was completely unaware of the implications of this _particular_ song coming back to haunt him. Mycroft grinned then, one of those smug smiles that Sherlock immediately recognized as "I know something you don't know" and made his skin crawl. The older man stood then,

"Perhaps you should start with that, brother mine."

A look of suspicion, then, "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"For the life of me, I can not remember." His face was genuine, almost fond. "I'm sure it will come to me." Sherlock hesitated for a moment, getting up from the chair and moving to place his violin back in it's case.

"Well, I can't wait for it to, I'm expected at the lab..." Sherlock trailed off, his mind occupied by the now flowing stream of old data snaking through his mind like a raging river. Mycroft nodded dutifully,

"Yes, well, mustn't keep Dr. Hooper waiting, then." He took a breath and sighed deeply, rapping his umbrella against the wood floor, a judge's final decree, "She's waited long enough already, wouldn't you say?"

Then he turned and walked out of the flat, leaving Sherlock staring dumbfounded at the doorway, unable to question what that meant.


	6. Did You Ever See A Dream Go Walking?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an epiphany.

Sherlock felt some measure of relief at having the Song identified at long last and had managed to put it aside, for the most part, his capacity for processing abstract thoughts and deductions replenished. Since Mycroft's visit, he had been inundated with fresh recollections of those formative years with his great grandmother, sitting in her lap or playing on the floor at her feet, while she poured over album after album, keeping herself bathed in music. The words were coming back to him quite naturally by now, and as he walked into Bart's he was almost contentedly stringing them together with the melody he'd uncovered. He kept Mycroft's words at the back of his mind. _Home._

Molly was in her office finishing up some paperwork on a rather mundane, but messy post-mortem and had told him she'd join him shortly. Sherlock set about collecting a few specimens he’d had cultured in the lab from some of the cold cases they'd been working on. He was setting up his work space, singing under his breath as the lyrics presented themselves, and scatting the melody to fill in the gaps.

“…smiling face, a fireplace, a cozy room…”

He shrugged off his Belstaff and jacket, then began rolling up his sleeves.

“…dat-dat dam… the roses bloom…”

He picked up the tray of samples he’d left at the end of the counter and began moving back towards the microscope he’d left his notebook beside.

“Just Molly and me… and b-“

The tray fell to the floor with an echoing clatter. Sherlock stood frozen in place, his heart pounding and breath suddenly erratic. Staring wide-eyed and unfocused, his hands still held in the position of balancing the tray.

_Just Molly and me..._

It was as though a dam had burst. Wave after wave of emancipated thoughts and suppressed feelings gushing from the reservoir within him.

Molly.

The alarm of hearing the words thrust him back into his Mind Palace, where he was able to finally process the Song in its full form. All the doors flew open at once, the crooning lilt of Gene Austin echoing throughout and in that moment he saw what it was his mind had been trying to tell him.

Molly. Who could see through him.

Molly. Whom he trusted with not only his own life, but with the lives of everyone he loved.

Molly. Who was a constant source of strength and comfort to him.

Molly. Who was reliable and intelligent, clever and inventive.

Molly. Who matter the most.

Molly. Who despite everything, loved him.

Molly Hooper. Who was his home.

_Will lead you to my blue heaven._

He hadn’t noticed when the woman herself, whose name was still tingling on his lips, had entered the room in a rush of alarm at having overheard the sound of metal crashing and shattering glass. Whose alarm turned into concern as she took in the man before her, who stood catatonic above the detritus of his work. Who approached him, using softness and caution in an attempt to pull him from his distraction.

Molly. The lightning strike of awareness reducing his entire vocabulary to one word. Molly.

She was upon him now, her hands on his shoulder, lightly shaking him, her voice shrill with a rising panic.

“Sherlock!”

His eyes snapped to her with such intensity that she startled. He watched her move a hand to her chest as if to still her heart, a hesitant calm coloring her paled complexion. Sherlock stared at her, Molly Hooper, whom he had realized in one shining moment was the answer to every question. The sum of all equations. The catalyst of every reaction.

The world began to return to him as he watched the emotions change in her eyes like sunlight through a prism.

“Molly…” he managed. She gasped, surprised by the tone of his voice. Wonder and adoration.

“Sherlock? What the hell is the matter with you?” She breathed, confusion and fear beginning to waver her resolve, "Are you alright?"

He took a shuddering breath and hesitantly reached for her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“I am so very stupid.” He said simply, sounding relieved. Her brow furrowed, that hadn’t been a helpful answer.

“Molly…” he said again. He didn’t know how his hands found her face, his fingers suddenly buried in her auburn hair, still mussed and rumpled from the splash guard she’d worn for the last autopsy. His thumbs lightly brushing her reddening cheeks. He didn’t hear her squeak in surprise as he pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his, drawing her to him and drowning himself in her. The unique scent of Molly drawing into him with every breath; lavender, formaldehyde, & death, giving him life.

She mumbled his name against his mouth before her small but steady hands seized his raven locks, returning his kiss with a primal fervor. His hands moved to her waist, holding her firmly as he leaned into her. Anchoring himself to her, his shelter in the storm.


	7. My Blue Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes, movement behind him stirring lazily. Blinking himself awake, he registered the mournful wails crackling through the monitor on the nightstand. The stirring continued beside him as he sat up, rubbing his eyes as a sleepy mumble drifted over the bed and into the night. He turned, leaning over the waking form of his wife,

“Go back to sleep.” His voice deep and groggy, “I’ll get her.”

A grumble of acquiescence and Molly gratefully burrowed herself deeper into the covers. Getting to his feet, he blindly pulled a dressing gown off the door hook and made for the stairs.

He padded into the room and up to the cot, he reached down and lifted the mewling baby.

“What is it, honeybee?” he said softly, settling the child against his chest. The baby’s wailing turned to a sad whimpering as Sherlock swayed and bounced softly. He gently rubbed her back while he assessed her nappy.

“You don’t feel wet. I know mummy just fed you… Just lonely then?” he asked his daughter, who had since calmed and was now pressing her face into his neck and bunching up his nightshirt in her tiny fists.

“Alright then. Fancy a song?” he asked inquiringly, though obviously not expecting an answer. He sashayed over to the rocking chair by the window and sat down, still holding the baby close, his cheek against her head of black curls. 

“Day is ending  
birds are wending  
back to the shelter of  
each little nest they love…

Nightshade falling…  
Lovebirds calling…  
What makes the world go ‘round?  
Nothing but love…”

Rocking slowly back and forth, he turned his face to press his lips against her head, breathing in her sweet baby smell. She was breathing softly, her little fingers rubbing the silky collar of his dressing gown as she slowly drifted back to sleep.

“When whippoorwills call…  
And evening is nigh…  
I hurry to my blue heaven

A turn to the right…  
A little white light…  
Will lead you to my blue heaven

You’ll see a smiling face, a fireplace, a cozy room…  
A little nest that’s nestled where  
The roses bloom…

Just Molly and me…  
And baby makes three…  
Will lead you to my blue heaven…

Just Molly and me…  
And baby makes three…  
We’re happy in my blue heaven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! If you were curious, each chapter title is a song by Gene Austin & each with (somewhat) relevant lyrics to the corresponding chapter. Though my inspiration came from the Smashing Pumpkins cover on the 33 single.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudo, Comment, & Share your love!


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